Within each dried pomegranate head lies a photograph, a glimpse into my extended family from both my mother's and father's sides. These fragments of memory are intentionally limited: not every face is present, as some photos have been lost to time, and others to the constraints of space. I centered my grandparents and their children, as well as honoring two cousins lost to violence-one in Syria under the dictatorial regime, and the other in Baltimore.
Like looking through a viewfinder, the pomegranate's core offers a partial window. Some faces emerge clearly; others remain veiled in shadow or obscured by the fruit itself.
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